When The Devil Drives
by Ridiculosity
Summary: For Molly - everything could be considered a threat. And she meant everything - from tall people, to dark corridors, to lonely nights. Fortunately for her, Sherlock has some very useful friends with determined ideas about what she should and should not be doing. [Ghost AU Sherlolly, little angst]
1. The Army of the Undead

**Should I be writing so soon after finishing Two Hundred and Twenty One B, Baker Street? Yes, yes I should.**

 **This prompt was given to me a while back by your favourite Tingy. It's a good prompt, but for plot purposes I'm going to put it at the bottom of the fic.**

 **This is gonna be a three part fic, prepare yourself! Side note: lots of Warcraft references in the titles for this one.**

* * *

She had _no_ idea where the fear had originally come from.

Honestly, it was just there, one fine day. It came out of nowhere, and it resided in her mind until she was in her late twenties. She couldn't tell _anyone_ that she was scared of so many things, and she couldn't even tell them _why_ she was scared of her own shadow on occasion.

Things which were loud made her afraid. Childhood traumas with brothers who loved haunted houses, not to mention scaring her to pieces. Unfortunately, she was also the youngest child with three brothers, which just meant "healthy" sibling bullying.

Which had just resulted in her being terrified of the dark, of being very scared of thunder, having a phobia for small spaces that moved (namely, lifts), and even the occasional invisible ghost.

Which was ridiculous, because she was a scientist. She worked with dead people. She worked in a godforsaken _morgue,_ for crying out loud. She _didn't_ believe in ghosts.

She didn't!

She did _not._

She _refused._

She was going to die, she thought as the door slammed loudly and she jumped two feet in the air.

"Sherlock," she breathed. He didn't say anything to her, preferring to be seated near his microscope. Molly breathed in again, and forced her heart to calm itself. She _wasn't_ scared. Ghosts _weren't_ real. The dark _was_ fine. Lifts _wouldn't_ kill her.

"I'm sorry," he said coldly. "I forgot about your fear of – what was it, again? Noises."

Oh, fuck, who was she really kidding? Sherlock? Because he had seen through it from the moment he met her.

Becoming acquainted with Sherlock had not helped her fears. She just become worried about his judgment on her, and hid most of the things which she was afraid of so that he would never find out. Her fear of lifts was concealed with her always "needing exercise" and taking the stairs. Her fear of the dark never came up, for she always needed light in the morgue. Her fear of ghosts was so inexplicable, he would never ask her, she was certain. Her fear of loud noises… was understandable. He knew that.

Her fear and attraction for him, however, was something he had seen through immediately.

She had fooled herself into believing that he didn't know of her hopeless crush on her. He didn't know that she was just as scared of… large people. She didn't like his height, it made her unbelievably school-girly, not to mention how terrifying he could look when he _was_ at that height. That's why Jim had been such a wonderful thing to happen to her: someone who liked flowers and _Glee_ and goodness. Who laughed at her nightlight while he killed thousands of people.

Yes, absolutely charming.

Molly was a walking disaster.

* * *

The woman was a walking disaster, Sherlock decided.

Her fear of noises was abnormal. Her small, scared, very "hamster" persona was unbearably grating.

"'Endearing,'" said the woman who was definitely dead by his side. "The word you are looking for is 'endearing'."

"Shut up, Mary," said Sherlock under his breath.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock!" said the woman. She adjusted her translucent jacket. "Isn't she adorable? She's adorable. I love her."

Molly jumped. Oh, _no._

"What?" asked Sherlock pleasantly.

"Nothing – um. Well, - I just. Erm. I thought I – well, h-heard something," she said.

Good God, why did she have to stumble so much?

"In my day, women were so much more assertive. Now, I like this girl, I really do, but she's far too scared for you, Sherlock, dear. Then again, she does seem to know whatever Sherlock thinks, oddly enough." sniffed another woman who was just as dead.

"Mrs. Hudson, please, take my advice and _go away,"_ said Sherlock under his breath again. "You are _terrifying_ the woman that you think I have feelings for. Now, is that a reasonable way to play matchmaker?"

"You'd be surprised at how well it works," said Mary, raising her eyebrows. "Why, I remember the summer of 87 – we positively _terrified_ this boy into asking out a girl he liked."

"That is _lovely,"_ Sherlock said through gritted teeth. "Go away. You're scaring her and then she cannot work optimally."

"And the _work_ is most important, isn't it, Sherlock?" came Mycroft's dulcet tones.

"Molly, could you do me a favour and bring some coffee?" asked Sherlock as politely as possible.

"Well, erm –"

He frowned at her believably. "Are you wearing new clothes?"

"I – well, yes," said Molly.

"Blue suits you," he said smoothly.

"Um. Thanks," she blushed. "I'll just get the coffee, then. Black, two sugars, right?"

"Yes," he said charmingly.

She walked out of the morgue, and Sherlock glared at the shutting door. He turned to the people who were translucently floating around him.

"All of you are very, _very_ dead," he said to them. "My God, you are all _so_ dead. Please, for the love of everything that is science, walk towards the godforsaken light. Leave Molly and myself alone."

"Oho," said Mary, grinning mischievously. "Alone time?"

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose. "I cannot believe I'm talking to my dead best mate's dead wife. Are you _positive_ that you're not a figment of my imagination? I was very traumatised by your death. I had a shock blanket and everything."

"I'm touched that you would care enough about us to consider that possibility," said John from the side.

"You know that other people can hear us when we need them to," said Mary with her usual smile.

"Miss Morstan, why _are_ you making my brother endure this nonsense?" asked Mycroft, flipping through a newspaper.

"But isn't it _nice_ for us all to be here, Sherlock?" asked Mrs. Hudson.

"Yeah, _why_ are we here?" asked John. "I thought the idea was to haunt him for a while and then go on a few adventures and then maybe judgement day."

"He's a lonely boy," said Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh, yes," said Sherlock, sitting down on the microscope again. "I'm the _picture_ of loneliness."

"Why can't we allow him to do his work?"

"Because, Mycroft," said Mary with a starchiness to her tone, "We need him to ask Molly out."

"Is it necessary?" asked Mycroft.

"I should think so!" said Mrs. Hudson. "He needs to have someone! And she is _such_ a nice girl, even if she is terrified."

"That is _your_ fault!" said Sherlock loudly.

"My God, am I really subjected to this frivolous matchmaking?" asked Mycroft, with a resigned finality.

"You listen to me –" said Mary, beginning to look angry. "You _said_ you would help, you _told_ me."

"Not with a scheme as positively _abnormal_ as this –"

"It _is_ a bit farfetched, Mary –"

"This girl _is_ rather fearful, dear –"

"Um, Sherlock?" came Molly's voice from the door. "I heard voices."

Everyone stopped talking at once. "Shh!" said Mary audibly, and Molly jumped, looking behind.

"It's nothing, Molly," said Sherlock smoothly. "Do you have the coffee? Thank you. I will come back for the results."

* * *

Molly sighed as Sherlock left the morgue. Thank god. Disaster was averted.

She had the graveyard shift tonight, and she positively hated the empty corridors in the dark. Funnily enough, she didn't fear the dead at all – so at least she was comfortable with that.

Whenever she _did_ have the graveyard shift, she used to bring Toby with her and lock him up in her office. He was away from the things which could be contaminated, and she had company for when she went home. It was a good system, and one which she had confided in Mike Stamford. She had his unofficial approval, which made her pleased.

At least Sherlock wasn't here. He just made her nervous. Whenever he came around these days, she could hear twice as many voices around the morgue.

* * *

Sherlock was sitting in Baker Street, his fingers steepled, deep in thought.

"I am going to kill each and every one of you," he told the empty room.

"We're already dead, brother mine," said Mycroft nastily.

"I am going to kill myself and find you in the afterlife."

"There isn't a guarantee that you'll come back," said Mary critically.

"Well, trust me, I _will,"_ said Sherlock. "There has to be a bloody afterlife, if all of you are here."

John chuckled. "The afterlife. What an – well, what a _living_ phenomenon."

Sherlock glared at him. "Don't give me cryptic answers for that which you don't know."

"Ah, fuck off, Sherlock," said John. "How's Greg?"

"Who?" asked Sherlock. "Oh, Lestrade. Not being haunted by ghosts, thank you very much."

"We haven't _tried_ haunting him," said Mary enthusiastically. "We should!"

"Let's haunt Molly first, get this over with," sighed John.

Mary frowned at him. "We can't do that. She's scared of things."

"For good reason," said Mycroft. "With a woman like you hanging around her, I'd be afraid of bloody dragons. Heaven help her, she may even go to _Sherlock_ for support."

"That's violently emotional of you," said Sherlock. But Mary wasn't looking at him, or listening to him.

"There's an idea," she said.

"What?" asked Sherlock, wary.

"Let's haunt Molly!" she said excitedly.

"Really, dear," Mrs. Hudson tutted. "That's unnecessarily cruel of you."

"No, no, you don't understand," said Mary. "Let's scare her until these two finally start dating!"

"Oh, go _away_ Mary," said Sherlock in an uncharacteristic burst of anger.

"I –" began John. He paused. "That _could_ work."

"No! Absolutely not!" said Sherlock. "Not even in your _wildest_ imagination will any of you do that!"

"You know, I think you _are_ right," said Mrs. Hudson. "Yes, I think _you_ are."

"Mrs. Hudson!" said Sherlock loudly.

"It _could_ work," said Mycroft. "And when it does, can we all go?"

"Yes," said Mary gleefully. "Yes, yes, yes, yes, _yes_!"

"Mary, if I could get my hands on your neck," said Sherlock stepping aggressively towards her.

"So, are we agreed?" asked Mycroft. "Can I have the liberty to plan out the haunting?"

"Certainly, Mycroft," said Mary in an unbelievable act of generosity. "You would know best."

"I suggest we begin with a little noise; we know she's scared of noises. We can proceed with whispers, and perhaps a few bangings. Nothing very traumatising, obviously. If things get truly desperate, we can show ourselves, but I doubt it will come to that."

Sherlock was looking murderous.

"Off, then?" asked Mary.

"Oh, _yes,"_ said Mrs. Hudson, straightening her skirt.

"I am _going_ to kill you all."

All of them started disappearing one by one. John was the last to go.

"You know, you _could_ save us the trouble and ask her out?" he said easily to him. "Unlike them, you actually _told_ me you liked her."

"I did not say that. And besides, how can I?" snapped Sherlock. "She's terrified of me, and _no,_ I do not 'like' her. We're not twelve, John."

"You told me, and I quote, 'she doesn't deserve me.'"

"I know what I said," said Sherlock, irritable. "And I stand by it. I do not love her, as you are wont to believe. I don't want to subject her to me. She's done too much – she's done far too much. How would you know everything she has done? You were dead then."

"I still am dead, you know. And now, she's going to be subjected to Mary. Life has come full circle." John winked at him, just as he disappeared. Sherlock was left in an empty room with the echoes of his friends which were looking to unite him with a woman who deserved more. And that was when it occurred to him: they were going to haunt Molly Hooper.

'Haunt,' haunt Molly Hooper.

Molly Hooper.

Who was scared of loud noises.

And lifts (he hadn't missed that, even though she thought he did).

And she was scared of the dark (he had noticed Toby's hair in her office after graveyard shifts).

 _Oh no._

He ran down to get a cab to Barts.

* * *

Molly was cheerfully listening to music while cutting up Mr. Roberts' heart. This was fun. This was definitely enjoyable; this was something she could do without thinking about the rest of the world.

She was absorbed in the heart and all the tendons and muscles when the window banged shut. Her heart skipped a beat, but she ignored it. She was careful with the way she continued her dissection. It must be a windy night, and she didn't want to ruin a pair of gloves while shutting the window.

She became absorbed in the heart again. When she got home with Toby, she would have a glass of wine and watch a good movie. Something romantic, she decided to herself. His heart was a bit worn from all the smoking, Molly thought to herself. Poor man.

This time, the door banged.

Molly didn't jump, but she looked up. A cold chill went down her spine, and she laughed to no one nervously. She put her scalpel away, and took of her gloves, giving it up as a bad job. She walked to the door and checked outside. Nothing.

More anxious, she decided that there must have been a breeze.

She tapped her thighs inconsistently. Her palms felt a little sweaty. She decided to go to her office and wash her hands.

"There are no ghosts," she told the empty room. "No ghosts. I cut up _dead_ people. I cannot be scared of ghosts."

The room was incredibly silent.

"I am _not_ scared of ghosts."

She went to her office, intent upon focusing on nothing more than washing her hands. Her bathroom was rather nice, even if it was tiny. She made sure she had good disinfectant soap at all times. She occasionally enjoyed a funny soap, like something purely for the smell of lemons. From outside her office, there was the sound of a very large _crash._

The quiet of the office and the morgue was never something that worried her – she didn't mind the silence. There wasn't a single noteworthy sound as Molly continued to breathe in and out – in and out, in and out, in and out.

Her breath ghosted due to the cold of the morgue. She was used to this. She didn't mind this.

But that was the thing about monsters – they always started with something _familiar_ and built from there.

A plastic dustbin fell softly.

Molly gave a soft start. She clutched her chest. "No. Ghosts."

She went outside to have a dustbin upended. She straightened it out.

There were loud _steps_ approaching the morgue.

They were coming with _speed._ Molly could feel her heartbeat in tandem with the steps – but she didn't focus on that. Her mind went horrifically blank – completely white with nothing, absolutely nothing in it. Her senses went on a complete high, and she realised, almost belatedly, that Toby was going to be very lonely.

Oh my _god._

"Oh my God," she whispered to herself. _Oh my god. Right, as soon as the ghost enters, run into your office, avoid all mirrors, maybe find yourself an iron weapon – salt._

 _Ghosts won't care for salt and iron! This isn't_ Supernatural!

When the door opened, Molly's heart nearly gave away. "Sherlock!" she exclaimed.

"Oh, good, you're still here," the man panted. Molly forced her heart to calm down.

"I needed to conduct a few tests, Molly, is that all right?" he asked.

"Perfectly fine," said Molly, relieved.

"Did I scare you?" he asked. He wasn't very gentle, he was rather demanding in knowing this. Molly frowned.

"No," she said. "Its – well. Erm. It's a breezy night, you know?"

"Any loud noises?" he demanded.

"The window," said Molly, startled. "And door. Why?"

"No reason," he said. "I know you fear loud noises."

Molly was touched. "That's – well, it's kind of you."

"I'd rather not have you jumping out of your skin while you dissect the heart of the man who was most certainly poisoned."

"Oh, you got that _too?"_ asked Molly, excited. "I thought I was alone in that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her.

"Right, of course," said Molly shyly. "Um. You can continue to work here, Sherlock."

"Thank you," he said graciously. What a strange interaction. She was certain his eyes were darting about in anger.

It was at this point that the door decided to bang again. Molly squealed softly.

"Just a little breeze," she said to herself. "Breeze."

"Breeze," said Sherlock looking at a corner in anger. "If this breeze continues I am going to call the meteorological department and demand an explanation."

"Um," said Molly alarmed. "I'm sure that isn't necessary."

"Oh, wouldn't _you_ like to know," said Sherlock darkly. "Anyway, please, get back to your patient."

* * *

"Her cat's adorable, did I mention?" said Mary.

"Mary, to you, Molly can do no wrong," said her husband patiently.

"Yes," said Mary. "Look at them; silently working. Nice slide, Sherlock. It's empty, of course. But nice. Good work."

Sherlock didn't say anything but his glare was so angry that John would have quaked had he not been dead.

"While it is a comfortable silence Miss Hooper and dearest Sherlock are participating in, I would like to know why we aren't forcing them to engage in conversation?" asked Mycroft boredly.

If Sherlock could have cussed right now, he would make an Irish sailor blush.

"Right you are, Mycroft," said Mary happily. "I will go for the dustbin again."

"Repetitive. Try banging some equipment."

* * *

She had never thought she'd be glad Sherlock was here. Ever since he stepped into the morgue, the incessant 'breeze' had finally stopped. Well, it stopped for a while. Molly was fairly certain it had begun again when the door looked like it was swaying all over again.

And then some boxes from the top of a cupboard fell. Molly didn't jump, and while her forehead broke out in sweat, she ignored it steadfastly.

She continued to work on her 'patient' without heed to the stupid ghosts in her head.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

Her energy was focussed, largely, on Mr. Roberts. Not that _he_ cared, but Molly refused to let some fears of hers prevent her from doing a good job. Her hand would occasionally shake, but she remained in control of this. Her heart raced and she was praying to every deity imaginable that she won't do something that would permanently damage her ability to work.

And then Sherlock let out a frustrated grown.

"Molly," he bit out. "Explain what you're doing."

"Um," said Molly. "An autopsy?"

"Just – talk to me. The noise is driving me to distraction."

"Well – erm, how will I help?" asked Molly meekly. She would really rather get back to Mr. Roberts...

"Just keep explaining every procedure. Pretend I am a medical student."

"Oh – well. Okay," she said. "I'm just beginning with the stomach – if you want to kn –"

"Yes," he said.

Everything was suspiciously silent after that.

* * *

Molly was certain that she was going mad.

It wasn't that she found Sherlock's behaviour odd, or the way the noise would stop whenever he spoke to her in the morgue weird. It was that when he did come, it _stopped._

And wherever Molly went these days, she seemed to be causing a clusterfuck of disasters. Things fell, things made noise, and she was certain that she heard high screeching from time to time during her graveyard shifts in the morgue.

She was being driven mad by what she could conclusively say were ghosts.

High, tinny screams came from her office which was why she stopped bringing Toby. He found the noise distracting, and he had begun to behave very oddly in the morgue. He would paw at invisibility, and his fur would stand on end.

Molly was terrified, so she _wanted_ to bring him with her, but she could not. She didn't want to continuously worry about whether the ghost would take him away and stuff him or petrify him or something equally terrifying.

On the other hand, her mind was in pieces because she couldn't find the source of the problem. She knew, _logically_ that this could be no ghost, but she didn't know what else to blame. Perhaps some interns were playing a rather cruel prank on her fears. She was afraid to confront them because then they would actually _know_ what a mess she was.

Sherlock burst into her office (for the millionth time), and Molly jumped. She was very jumpy these days, as anyone would have noticed.

"Molly, where's your schedule of shifts at the hospital?" he demanded.

"Um," Molly panicked. She struggled with her papers, and extracted a schedule from a mess of papers. "Here," she said.

"Thank you," he bit out.

He was gone before Molly could say in a quiet voice: "That... was – my only copy."

She sighed and got up to take a print out from the soft copy.

* * *

 _St. Barts, Twelve AM at night._

"Well – um. This is the _Femur,_ and the _tibia_ and _fibula_ are here – do you want me to explain the physics behind their movement?"

"Yes."

* * *

Everytime Molly had a night time shift these days, Sherlock was there. And not just Sherlock who was busy with his experiments. Sherlock who was busy with trying to make small talk with her. Well – if you could call Sherlock asking her to recite all the bones of the body small talk. He did that a lot.

Molly had so far explained three or four rare conditions, a few physiological issues which showed in the body, every bone in the body, cutting the heart, tissues, and two or three other adages. She didn't know _why._

What she _did_ realise was that when he came – and particularly when he spoke, everything was quiet. Well, the noises and the screeching and the ghosts. It almost made her think that it was his prank all along, if she didn't know him so well.

Then, she stumbled upon the conclusion that he was doing it – so that the noises _wouldn't_ bother her?

Which just put her in a tizzy so she ignored and decided to enjoy it while she could.

* * *

"The stomach, as you know – is one of the more interesting things to cut up. You really _never_ know what you may find! It could be bread, sometimes its fish. Once, I found actual _cloth_ Sherlock, I swear to God. Then again, the woman in question was not exactly _right_ in the head."

"Do you talk to your students that way?" he asked. He seemed amused.

She blushed. "Sometimes. I get nervous around people, so I just imagine that I am talking to my father."

"Your father was alright with you describing the contents of a dead woman's stomach?"

"It was _cloth!_ Who wouldn't be interested?"

Sherlock was actually smiling. "Who wouldn't indeed."

She was doing it! She was actually talking to him, and it wasn't about his drug problems, about his cases or even about murder. He was _smiling._

"My father was _awesome_ Sherlock," she said, unselfconsciously. "He was cool and he bought me a microscope and told me that he didn't care as long as I didn't find maggots interesting. He didn't like maggots, and I think it was because I once showed him some putrid ones."

"Aren't you Irish?" asked Sherlock.

"How'd you know?" asked Molly, surprised.

He raised his eyebrows. "Right," she blushed. "What about you? Anything interesting you show your parents?"

He paused. "I turned their clothes pink. Well, Mycroft's. It was an experiment. One of my favourites."

Molly smiled. She bit her lip. Sherlock sighed: "You can laugh."

She burst into giggles. He smiled wryly at her.

* * *

"I wonder _what_ she finds so amusing. That was a horrible week for me."

"Pink suits you, though, Mycroft," said Mrs. Hudson.

"Thank you," sniffed Mycroft. "However, not the audacious shade Sherlock had chosen to grace me with."

Sherlock was staring at the woman who was laughing. He had smiled, but his brain was distantly thinking about something else. He wasn't contemplating how lovely Molly Hooper looked, or something equally inane.

He was wondering why he had hardly ever heard her laugh.

She laughed at her own jokes, but those were stifled giggles. He had certainly _never_ been the _cause_ of her laughter.

"You okay, mate?" asked John. Mary was watching Sherlock intently.

Sherlock returned to his microscope.

"Thanks, Sherlock. It's been an awful few weeks because of these interns."

"Sorry?" asked Sherlock.

"Sorry?" repeated Mary.

"Well," Molly went red. "I think they've been playing a prank on me," she confessed. "Whenever I have the night shifts, there's this barrage of noises. From wind, to objects – _banging._ And – you're going to think I'm insane."

"Try me," Sherlock bit out.

"Well – screaming sounds. And nails screeching."

"That was me!" claimed John immediately.

Sherlock swore in his head.

"Anyway, you know me. I'm really scared of – _noises."_

"Just noises?" asked Sherlock slowly.

Molly went from red to a pale pink. "Can you promise not to tell anyone this?" she asked.

Sherlock's curiosity was getting the better of him.

"I have a really irrational fear of – well, of ghosts."

Sherlock blinked at her.

There was silence all around him as his friends – _who were ghosts –_ took this in.

The universe had to have a sense of humour, Sherlock thought dourly as Mary Watson was the first to burst into peals of laughter.

* * *

 **So, the prompt in question: "You are a smol scared hamster of a person who is scared of the dark and lightning and occasionally even your own shadow and you are losing your mind because you're pretty sure that you're being haunted by ghosts, and I don't know how to tell you this but those ghosts are actually my friends and they're just playing matchmaker and trying to get us both together and I'm really sorry that they've locked us together in this storage closet rn I swear I had nothing to do with this." Thx Tingy.**


	2. The Damned Stand Ready

**AHA! You thought I wouldn't finish, did you? Of course not. There are few things I like more than AUs. I know this chapter is short, buuuuut I've actually finished writing it, so expect to have it completed in a week :)**

 **(By the by is everyone as scared as I am for the next series? Actually you know what we are not talking about that darned series at all. I am ostriching this bullshit. If I pretend it doesn't exist, maybe it'll go away and none of my babies will canonically die.)**

* * *

There were a thousand ways to die, Molly considered. But the worst, she decided – had to be of embarrassment.

She blushed red as she looked at Sherlock, who was listening to her intently as she stumbled her way through bruising patterns and death.

"You seem ill at ease," he said.

"I'm – well, I am wondering why you keep making me do this," she confessed.

"Doing what?" he asked, nonplussed.

"Trying to – well, get me to talk," she said. She cleared her throat. "The rest of me is wondering the best way to die."

Sherlock's lips quirked. Molly was finding herself regularly subjected to this slight amusement, and she was always surprised when she managed to get him to do that. It wasn't that Sherlock had never smiled for her before – Sherlock – well, he had been through far too much recently, and she hadn't seen him smile in a while.

John and Mary's death had been the worst. She remembered reaching for a Sherlock Holmes who was becoming his own monster. She remembered trying – she remembered the physical pain of failure, she remembered everything that had been wrong with herself and how little she had been able to help.

"What is the best way to die?" he asked.

"Ideally?" said Molly. "I'd really like it if I died drinking."

He was surprised, she noticed. It was understandable – she didn't look like an alcoholic.

"You want to die of drinking too much alcohol?" he asked, his eyebrows raised.

"It's an excellent way to die," said Molly, nodding. "I already have the lonely spinster thing going for me – and considering how boring people consider my life is, it would be adequately tragic and exciting. It would numb my brain, make my life simpler and I'd be able to sleep well. Besides, Shakespeare died of drinking – and he's cool."

"You defy expectations," he said dryly.

"Well, how would you like to die?" she challenged.

"Bullet through the head. Preferably administered by me," said Sherlock.

"Reason?" asked Molly.

"It would shut my brain up," said Sherlock curtly.

Molly smiled sadly. "Pity. I like your brain," she said.

He was looking at her, and Molly could feel his brain reach out – analyse everything he could think of. His eyes sweeped her body, making her shudder – out of fear or pleasure, she didn't know. As someone who worked with the dead, she felt like there was little difference between the two.

"Goodnight, Molly," he said softly.

* * *

"So, Sherlock," said Mary.

"No, Mary," he said.

"I didn't even say anything!" she said.

"I can hear you _thinking,"_ said Sherlock darkly.

"Only good things being thought here," said Mary cheerfully.

"I'm sure," said Mycroft.

"You know Mycroft, she _is_ my wife," said John mildly.

"Not anymore," said Mycroft, flipping a page of a newspaper. "Till death do us apart, remember?"

"We used _'_ as long as we shall live'," Mary reminded.

"And are you both living?" asked Mycroft. "Doubtful."

"Shut up," said Sherlock.

"You don't have a case right now, dear," said Mrs. Hudson.

"I prefer the chaos of my mind to this," Sherlock informed her.

"Surely, you don't mean that," said Mrs. Hudson, tutting. "Honestly, the things you get up to."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

The Molly Hooper problem had its roots in the death of his friends. No, far before that.

Molly Hooper had become a problem from the day she met him.

It wasn't her smiles – or her love for him that made her a problem. She had become a problem when Sherlock found himself fascinated by the way she smiled, and the reason for her love. John had been so much simpler to understand – so much easier to work with.

Molly – Molly was always making him uncomfortable. Molly had this tendency to settle under his skin. She had solved his drug problem the first time, and more than that – she had solved him. She knew him – she knew how many times he had died in those early days, how many times he had needed her.

She knew what he felt like when John had died, when Mrs. Hudson had been killed. She knew everything about him – and she knew it instinctually. She had saved him from over doses, she had saved him from drugs after all those deaths – she had saved him from himself.

But she had saved herself from Jim Moriarty – and in doing so, saved him all over again.

"You know Sherlock, you had little chance of thwarting us by making her recite medical nonsense," said John conversationally.

"You are a _doctor,"_ said Sherlock. "Please, behave like one."

"Pish and posh," said Mary. "Don't dodge the issue. Ask her out."

"I will _not,"_ he said.

He didn't deserve her. He didn't deserve small Molly Hooper with her smiles and her love and her gentleness. He didn't deserve her – she had seen him vomiting blood, she had seen him impassively stare at her after John's death. She had seen him recoil within himself, and she had brought him back. She did not deserve this mess of a man – she deserved someone happy, someone who would make her happy –

"Then I suppose we are forced to go to phase two," said Mycroft dryly.

"Phase two?" asked Sherlock sharply. "What's phase two?"

Mycroft looked out the window. "There's a storm brewing," he noted idly. And then he was gone.

"Right, that's our cue," said John, getting up.

Mary twirled her fingers, disappearing.

"Do have some dinner, dear," said Mrs. Hudson as she disappeared.

Sherlock swore.

* * *

The rain of London was a curious thing – it dripped and dripped and dripped. It didn't ever feel like much, but eventually you were soaked to the bone.

Molly ran to her apartment. This was not the kind of rain that dripped, soaked and made everything look like someone had painted water over the world. This wasn't the kind of rain that made it look like the world would never be dry again.

This was the downpour.

And with the downpour, came thunder. Molly squeaked at the very thought.

Lighting she didn't mind – lightning was beautiful. Thunder, on the other hand...

Molly shuddered. She unlocked her door, and fell on her sofa. She didn't have much time, she needed to prepare herself for incoming disaster. She drew the curtains, put on earphones and began to listen to some music. She decided to take out her laptop and watch something insipid.

When Mary had been alive, she used to bring Molly soup and music. They'd sing together and get rid of all the storms – it was one of those things that had made Molly happy. She stopped minding storms, as long as there was music playing.

But Mary died.

People die like fullstops. The paragraph is heading into beautiful places, where there are memories and happy things. And then there'll be one unexpected sentence – and then fullstop. Molly hated the thought of how Mary had died – she hated the way she still felt ice cold chills when she thought of it.

She hated not being able to face the storm.

And when they had died, how strong she had had to be. For Sherlock and for him alone, she had stifled her screams during storms when he had looked at her dead eyed. She had done it for him – maintained her composure. She had to make sure the fullstop didn't come for her, because if it did, Sherlock would be lost.

The earphones popped from her ears.

Molly looked up in surprise, only to find herself confronted with the steady dripping of rain. The steady shower was punctuated – very abruptly by a loud boom.

Molly squeaked. The rain continued on its path downwards, into the concrete of London.

Molly felt the trees shudder as the wind filtered between branches. Without any of the usual London traffic sounds clogging up her windows, she could hear the branches of trees snapping due to excessive rain and rot. She could feel the leaves mourning – she could feel the trees sighing heavily.

She shuddered.

A branch slapped Molly's window, and at the same time, thunder vibrated across the violently black-blue sky.

Molly jumped.

She took a deep breath, settled herself again, and popped in her earphones. _Die Hard_ four started playing, and Molly focussed on how terrible their gun handling was and how much Sherlock would be horrified by it.

The opening sequence was over with, the bits which involved stupidity were going on (but that was, in essence, the whole movie) and Molly was shutting out the loud booms of whatever the hell the rain could come up with (she refused to give it a name, it allowed a certain amount of familiarity).

Her earphones popped out of her ears again.

Molly looked around the apartment, wondering (with slight trepidation), what was going on. With a pang, she wished Mary was there.

The wind must have blown somewhere, for one of Molly's mugs crashed with very little ceremony. Molly didn't have time to wonder what was going to happen to the mug – as soon as she bent down to clean it up, thunder rumbled, and Molly squeaked again. Her heart was beating too fast, her brain was short circuiting and her back seemed to be giving up on her altogether.

The window burst open, allowing wind and leaves in.

It was around this time that Molly noticed that her clock was stuck – three AM in the morning.

Molly's mind decided at around this time to consider the absurd possibility that there were _actual_ ghosts in her apartment.

Thunder agreed with this assessment, because it boomed across the apartment, and Molly made up her mind. Not in the "yes, I am not going to be afraid of something as silly as thunder" way, more in the, "Panic is a beautiful thing that gives you the adrenaline rush to bolt across the room within six seconds and hide in the closet."

Molly had never run so fast. She squealed as another peal of thunder sounded – crashed into the closet, locked herself and turned on the overhead bulb.

The closet was small and claustrophobic. She didn't care. Nothing could kill her in here.

The light of the closet flickered. The bulb buzzed in a way that only made it look like it was giving a curious mating call to the ghosts of the area.

Molly took deep breaths in, deep breaths out. "Oh _God,"_ she whispered, sweat breaking out on her forehead. "If I am to die, please tell my mother I loved her and my brothers that I love them."

Footsteps sounds in the apartment. Either ghosts, or someone had broken in. Both possibilities were fatal. Molly didn't care to find out which was planning on killing her.

"Molly?" a voice whispered.

"Please leave me alone," she prayed.

"Molly!" it said, with firm authority and irritation.

 _Sherlock?_

The closet door burst open and Molly _screamed._

"Jesus Christ, Molly Hooper."

"S-Sherlock?" she said.

* * *

"S-Sherlock?"

Sherlock felt angry at Mary Watson for doing this to Molly. He felt angry at Molly for being so susceptible to it, and even more for being so hopeless in the face of it.

"What – um – what are you doing here?" she swallowed.

"I came for a case," he said. "Mr. Lancaster."

"Oh," she said, gulping again. "Um. I – I – I – well –"

"You're afraid of thunderstorms," he said crisply.

"Yes," she said.

"Anything you aren't afraid of?" he asked.

"Um – not –"

"It was rhetorical, Molly."

"Right," she said in a small voice.

He hesitated for a moment at the door of the closet, and then thunder struck. Molly buried her head into her knees.

He sighed, sitting down beside her. "Count till ten," he offered.

"Then the next one will be here," she said in a muffled voice.

"Do it anyway," he said.

"One," she began with a shudder. "T-two – _three._ I – oh." Thunder broke. " _Four."_

"Five," urged Sherlock.

"Five," she said, like a child, "S- _six._ Sherlock, I _can't –"_

 _"_ Seven," said Sherlock firmly.

"Seven." Thunder boomed across the skies, making it look like a beating heart. Molly squealed, turning to him and pressing herself into his shoulder.

"Now _that's_ progress," said Mary with a smile.

Sherlock was dumbstruck, for the most part. He adjusted his arm – unsure of what to do with it. Finally, he rested it on her back.

" _Eight,_ Molly," he said.

"Eight," she said, her voice softer. "Nine. Ten – e-eleven. Twelve, _thirteen."_

She shuddered periodically as the rain continued.

Her heartbeat was calming down slowly, noted Sherlock. Perhaps it was physical comfort that calmed her down.

"Why are you scared of thunder?" he asked.

Molly didn't say anything for a minute. "My brothers would lock me in a closet whenever there was a storm," she said quietly.

Sherlock didn't say anything. "Childhood trauma does make up majority of phobias," he said thoughtfully.

"That – does explain a lot," said Molly.

Thunder boomed again, and Molly stiffened. She was still pressed into his shoulder, so she bent her head.

"Physical comfort," noted Sherlock, "generally calms people down."

She emitted a high pitched sound.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked finally.

"What do you mean?"

"You've been... oddly comforting – _recently."_

Sherlock frowned. "I'm not entirely sure what you mean."

"The – _talking._ And – _this,"_ she gestured helpless to the way his arm was around her.

He was thoughtful. "I find myself indebted to you for doing the same with me," he said, finally.

"Oh," said Molly. "That makes sense."

"Does it?" he asked.

"No, not much does," she said. "God – I miss Mary."

Sherlock froze. Mary was watching her intently.

"She would – she would stick around during storms. She knew I hated them," said Molly, breathing deeply. "I don't – I don't know quite how to manage without her."

Mary was watching Molly.

"Tell her that she will manage just fine," she said.

Sherlock paused. "I'm sure Mary believed you would be just fine."

"People don't – _plan_ deaths, Sherlock," said Molly. "They just... _die._ Like fullstops. In the middle of a fragmentary sentence."

The rain was slowing down.

"I'm not entirely comfortable scaring her right now, Mary," said John distinctly.

"Tell her fragments also have value," said Mary, ignoring John.

"But occasionally," said Sherlock, "Fragments have value."

"I suppose," said Molly. "Do you miss them?"

A muscle twitched in Sherlock's jaw.

"Yes," he said briefly.

And for once, no one had anything to say.

* * *

 **Please review please I'll give you cookies**


	3. Craft of Ghosts

**Hi buds! Sorry for the lateness, got caught up in other things.**

 **Sort of short chapter :)**

* * *

Once again, it was _Mary_ who started it all. This wasn't surprising at all – the only thing _truly_ surprising was that Mary didn't even know the long and arduous history of her actions.

Mary swung her feet as she sat on a table.

" _So_..." she said significantly.

"No," said Sherlock at once.

"I didn't say anything!" said Mary with a grin.

He glared at her. " _No."_

No one said anything for a minute. Mycroft's eyes became wider, noticeably wandering. Mrs. Hudson clucked her tongue, saying something about being open to suggestions. John tapped his fingers. Sherlock ignored them all squarely.

"Well, what _did_ you have in mind?" asked John finally.

"Old trick we did in school," Mary confessed. "Lock 'em in a cupboard."

A pause.

"That's a bit much, even for you," said Sherlock after an endless silence had passed.

"You _have_ to be joking," said Mycroft directly after Sherlock.

"I don't think that's a bad idea," said Mrs. Hudson.

"Nobody _actually_ locks the other person in a cupboard," said John.

"What?" asked Mrs. Hudson.

"Well!" said John. "It's part of those stupid movies, right. Something about being stuck with a person long enough to 'sort out the feelings' and stuff? Nobody ever _actually_ does that in real life. For one thing – Molly's claustrophobic. For another, that _doesn't_ work. I mean – if that worked, we'd lock Russia and America together during the Cold War and end up with a passionate kiss."

"They _are_ the countries with the most romantic tension," said Mary, nodding agreeably.

" _Mary,"_ said John exasperated. "People don't _actually_ do that. Just like you don't end up under the mistletoe and figure out who you _really_ love. Or that its Christmas holidays and you fall in love within a week – well, that could happen, but for heaven's sake, people who fall in love in two weeks need therapy. And people don't get stranded on an island with someone they hate just to end up falling in love with them in real life."

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I find it _very_ distressing you know so many romantic plots," said Mycroft, examining his nails.

"They aren't _plots,"_ said John. "They're givens! Things that _always_ happen in a movie – or a book. Not in _actual_ life. People don't actually end up in a cupboard _and_ end up kissing."

"And _that's_ what we are worried about," said Sherlock. "The kissing. Not Molly's claustrophobia."

"I _love_ this idea more and more," said Mary.

Mycroft shrugged, flipping a page of his newspaper.

"How do you propose to get me in the cupboard?" asked Sherlock. "You realise I am _not_ going near one as of now."

"We haunt her until you go in with her," said Mary simply.

And with that, all of them disappeared. Sherlock swore. This was becoming a habit.

* * *

Molly paused in the middle of her sutures.

 _There's that wind again,_ she thought, more plaintive than scared. She was really tired of being haunted, thank you very much.

Again, the dustbin upturned itself.

Molly pressed her temples. Her head hurt with all the worrying and nervousness.

"Would the ghost haunting me please, _please_ stop it," she said. She might have imagined a brief pause, because the howling wind on a perfectly non-windy day was back, blowing across the corridor. "If you _have_ to haunt me, couldn't you do it once I am done? My hands are shaking, and I have never, _ever_ made an untidy suture."

For some reason, that shut it up. "Oh. Thank you," said Molly. "Don't worry, I'm still terrified. My head hurts, that's all. You can't be scared when you haven't slept out of the same fear."

She _did_ realise she was talking to herself.

She finished off the sutures, and felt a little pleased that she had reasoned with the ghosts until she jumped out of her skin when the radio started playing without being turned on by her.

"Original," she muttered, although her heart was beating at twice the speed.

 _Clack!_

Some of the brooms in the closet fell. Molly turned off the radio, and found herself shivering a little.

"V-very original," she said. She made her way to the broom closet, when Sherlock _burst_ through the door.

"Woah – Sherlock – are you okay?" she asked, concerned.

"Perfectly fine," he said, breathing like a winded rhino, his eyes flashing. "Do me a favour and don't go near that cupboard."

"I – shouldn't?" she asked nervously.

"Absolutely not," he said vehemently. He went into the cupboard aggressively, to pick up the brooms. As soon as he entered, the door _slammed_ shut.

Molly squealed, and fell behind. "Sherlock!" she said.

He banged against the door.

" _Not this!"_ he said. She wasn't sure what he was talking to – or _who_ he was addressing. " _Of all the idiotic, stupid, moronic – almost Anderson-like antics -!"_

"Um – I'll try opening it from my side, Sherlock," she said unevenly. Her hand grasped the door knob, turning it –

" _Molly, do not do that!"_

And it opened with ease – she tripped into the cupboard through a fallen broom and a very _forceful_ wind – and _immediately –_

The door shut.

Sherlock started swearing with imagination and venom she didn't think he possessed, which almost made her forget her fear of small spaces.

"Um – are you alright?" asked Molly, feeling the dark for him. She came in contact with his chest, which immediately made her blush. "Hang on – let me find the light –"

She reached for the switch by the door. The bulb turned on, and she took a deep breath.

"Keep it shut," said Sherlock tersely.

Molly immediately turned it off, and could feel herself able to breathe again.

"You're afraid of small spaces. It's better if you aren't aware of _how_ small the space is," said Sherlock. "Keep the light out."

"R-right," said Molly, breaking out into sweats. "That makes sense."

"Count your numbers, Molly," said Sherlock.

"One," she said. "Two. Three, four, five."

"Slow," he said softly. He was _far_ too close. That made her feel more anxious.

" _Six –_ seven, eight. Nine, _ten!"_ she took a deep, calming breath.

"Better?"

"Little bit."

"Sherlock," she said, wiping her brow. "Are you sure someone _isn't_ haunting us?"

She didn't know what the pause meant before he answered her. "Why do you say so?" he asked with forced calm.

"Before – voices followed whenever you came to the morgue," said Molly, distracting herself from the distance between herself and his chest. "Now – they come _before_ you and leave only when you and I talk."

Sherlock seemed to be quiet again, until Molly heard a very _distinct_ laugh.

She jumped.

"What is it?" asked Sherlock.

"It's – it's nothing," said Molly. "I thought I heard Mary laughing."

The laughter became _louder._

"For _God's_ sake," said Sherlock angrily. "Go _away,_ Mary!"

And then to Molly's utter and complete shock, she heard an answer, "And not listen in on this?" It sounded _exactly_ like Mary. Molly's heart must have stopped.

" _Eavesdropping is wrong!"_ said another voice.

" _Hoo,_ boy," breathed Molly. "Oh, _boy._ That – that was Mrs. _Hudson. Mrs. Hudson_ is _very_ dead. _Hoo, boy."_ Her voice increased an octave with every word.

"Breathe Molly."

"Are they _alive,_ Sherlock?" she said, so high pitched it was a wonder that it wasn't just bats who could hear her.

"Ghosts," he said curtly. "They aren't in the closet, don't worry. Something about privacy."

" _Privacy?"_ Molly squeaked.

"It was Mary's idea," said Sherlock, frustrated. "Bring us closer together or something."

Molly blinked.

The hysteria had been bubbling up for a while, of course, but this just caused it all to burst. She laughed, and laughed, and laughed. Her sides started hurting, and she curled up on the floor.

"Ah," said Sherlock. "Hysteria."

"No," said Molly, wiping her eyes. "Oh – _heavens –_ sit, Sherlock, come on – you're too tall as it is – oh." And she burst into fresh laughter. "Locking us in a _cupboard._ Which _fanfiction_ did you get that from, Mary?"

"Nearly all," came the answer.

"Fanfiction?" questioned Sherlock, as he sat down beside her.

"Well – um," Molly's ears went red. "Fanfiction. Fan created writing on something that doesn't belong to them. Spinning a story that someone else wrote."

" _Fanfiction?"_ asked Sherlock delicately.

"Fanfiction," repeated Molly. "It's a common trope," she added. "Lock the protagonists in a cupboard, and they'd explode due to sexual tension. It usually happens with two protagonists who hate each other, though. Or who can never admit they like each other."

"If they hate each other why would they want to be together?" asked Sherlock quizzically.

Molly wanted to laugh all over again. "Well – when you _hate_ someone, the sexual tension is _doubly_ satisfying. Draco and Harry, for example."

Sherlock wasn't following a word. It really calmed her down to talk about Harry Potter, however, so she ploughed on. "They hate each other, which is why so many people ship – erm – want them together."

"This makes no sense," said Sherlock.

"No, I don't particularly care for _all_ those ships – erm – _pairs,"_ corrected Molly. "But some have merit! James and Lily! Actually, this is a fairly common trope in that particular _pairing."_

"You read all this?"asked Sherlock, judgement laced in every syllable.

"It's diverting!" said Molly defensively. "Besides, we're all allowed our weaknesses. In any case, this is the most unrealistic trope."

"I _told_ her that," said a voice.

Molly quirked her eyebrows. "John?" she asked. Sherlock nodded.

"Well – it doesn't _quite_ make sense, does it?" asked Molly. "Why would any responsible friend lock their mates up in a cupboard? And what about your schedule for the day? What if you wanted to read? To write a paper? A submission deadline? Or did the lockings happen during summer vacation _only?_ What if someone had an un-missable appointment? It certainly makes no sense. And how do people manage to get tricked into being locked anyway? Why is it all so dramatic?"

"I don't particularly want to stop your very rational assessment of the situation, but you _did_ manage to get tricked," said Sherlock.

"Fair point," conceded Molly. "This actually happens in a lot of your fanfiction also."

She could _hear_ Sherlock breathing, the cogs of his brain working overtime as he processed this.

"I'm _sorry?"_ he asked in a dangerously soft voice.

Molly gulped. "You know you're _famous,_ right?" she asked.

"People don't write this sort of escapist fantasy about _actual_ people do they?" asked Sherlock, his voice still terribly soft.

"Sort of," said Molly.

"And who is my partner in this adventure amongst wardrobes?" asked Sherlock.

"John, usually," said Molly.

" _Not gay!"_ said John from wherever the hell he was.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"And the second most popular coupling?"

"Actually, that's Mary, you, _and_ John."

The breath in which no one said anything just made Molly feel helpless.

"What about you?" asked Sherlock.

"What about me?" asked Molly.

"Where do you come into this?"

"Oh, no," said Molly. "I don't really have a name in this. Background character. Nobody knows I exist. I've been alternatively called 'the morgue helper' and 'Julia.' A lot of fanfictions call me 'Charlotte.'"

Sherlock frowned. He seemed genuinely troubled by this analysis, his head tilting to regard her.

"You can't blame them. In their perspective, I don't have enough 'screen time'. I'd be an excuse to avoid making an OC."

"What the hell is an OC?" asked John.

"Original Character," Molly called out.

"Right," said John.

Sherlock was leaning away from her, and Molly took a deep breath again. The claustrophobia became more apparent when she had to stop talking about the fanfiction world.

"So," said Molly. "Any ideas on how to get out?"

"No," said Sherlock. "If what you say is right, then we need to have an explosion of sexual tension."

"A kiss would do," said Mary.

Molly bit her lip.

Sherlock groaned. Molly felt crushed.

"It can't be _that_ bad," said Molly. "I mean – I understand – that you don't _want_ to – I mean –"

Sherlock growled at the back of his throat, and gripped her wrist as he tugged her forward into a kiss. Molly squeaked as she stumbled forward, and he held onto her, dipping her down and kissing her deeply. She felt his tongue flick across her bottom lip, and she whimpered.

Molly's ears were ringing. Sherlock held her across his lap, and she wasn't quite sure how that had happened.

"Contrary to whatever you believe, I didn't just do that because a cupboard induces sexual tension," he said, his voice very low.

"Right," said Molly.

"I will see you tomorrow."

"Okay," said Molly.

"I want a bag of fingers."

"Done," she said.

"Come by Baker Street to give them."

"I'll do that," she nodded breathlessly.

"Good."

And again, in one swooping movement, he was gone – placing her neatly on the floor of the closet.

There was complete and utter silence. And then:

" _'_ _People don't actually do that,'_ he said!" cackled Mary.

* * *

 **And with this, I declare this fic finished. Time to focus on other things!**

 **Please review :)**


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